


Wild Ones

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Series: Killers for Hire (SkyeWard AU) [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Killers for Hire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward won the bet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Ones

He puts the case on the table in front of her, and she glares at him with such spite that all he can do is laugh.

“You’re a son of a bitch,” Skye says.  “You. Are.  A.”

“Son of a bitch,” Ward finishes.  He clicks the locks of the case.  “You could’ve gotten away with just a blowjob.”

She crosses her arms and huffs.  Childish and bratty but she knows he likes that about her.  “And now I’m going to have to give you multiple blowjobs and-”

“Clean the AWM.  Yes,” he says.  His stupid face is practically gleeful, if Grant Ward could feel glee.  He’s less cut up than she’s used to, and she almost finds him something like handsome.  Normally he’s just hot, in that kind of dangerous, dirty way that boys like him tend to be.  Never handsome.  Handsome is for movie stars and well-groomed, well-bred men.

“Go fuck yourself,” she tells him.  “Go shove your gun right up your-”

“I’ll gag you,” he tells her.  “I’ll strip you and gag you and make you polish my gun.”

“Polish your gun?” Skye asks, gesturing to the rifle on the table. “Or polish your-”

He leans forward, across the table, so that he takes up all of her personal space with his smirk and his body and his stupid, stupid face.  He kisses her forehead, and it kind of burns, though that could just be her imagination.  He kisses down, to her cheek, to the corners of her lips, leaving fire wherever his lips touch her skin.  And then he kisses her full on, not politely or quietly but with both hands in her hair and his mouth taking, always taking.

She puts her hands on his shoulders and shoves him back.  His hands untangle from her hair, grip the table’s edge.  He smiles without it reaching his eyes, his teeth bared like that’s supposed to scare her.  Or arouse her.

“You can’t do that,” he tells her.  “24 hours.  That was the bet.”

“Maybe I don’t want to play anymore,” she says.  “I could walk out right now.”

A wicked glint in his eyes.  A tic in his jaw.  “Try it.”

“Is this turning you on?” she asks.  Her fingers trace the back of his palm, up his arm.  “Baby, do you really think you could handle me for 24 hours?”  She shifts forward, almost out of her seat.  Her hand wraps around his bicep.  A reminder.  “Come on, baby.  Just lay back on the table and I’ll-”

 

 

He grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her out of her seat.  She knocks the chair over and hopes it breaks, but only because it’s his.  And then her back’s on the table and the gun is on the floor, case landing with a thud.

“Fuck off,” she says to him, out of habit.  He pulls her hips down against his leg, so that she can feel the fabric of her jeans tight against her and he’s over her, chest bearing down on hers and lips at her neck, sucking, and when he growls she feels it spark through her.

“You really I wouldn’t know what to do with you for 24 hours?” he asks.  “Like I haven’t thought about it?”

“Course you have,” Skye says beneath him.  “I mean, look at me.”

He grinds his leg against her and she bites her lip to keep from crying out.  “Come on, Skye,” he says.

“Fuck you,” she replies.  “I really wanted that gun.”

“And I really wanted a blow job,” he says.  “But this is one hell of a start.”

 

 

Skye means to reply to that, something scathing, but Ward goes to rip off her jeans, like, actually rip them off, and she has to swat his hands.

“Like a person,” she tells him.  He grabs under the waistband of her jeans and rips.  On purpose.  Fucking asshole.

“Not today,” he tells her.  “I’ll get you a new pair.”

“With what money?” she asks.  He goes to pull his jeans down, and she puts her knee up between them, in protest.  “Wait.”  She reaches for her phone, in the pocket of her ruined jeans, and puts it on the table.  “Okay.  Continue.”

He does.  With rough hands and growls like this is some great physical feat, not just the removing of her jeans.  They gather at her feet and she kicks them off, and then he has to go one further and slide them across the floor with the toe of his boot.

 

 

He takes a minute to look at her.  Really look, at every inch of her body.  She arches her back against the table, and he grabs her hips as if on cue.  She traces her foot against his shin.  

“You’re going to leave my socks on?” Skye asks.

“It’s hot,” he decides.  “You in your tank top and your underwear and your white socks.”

“You’re fucking weird,” she says.

His smile doesn’t disagree.  “Turn over,” he tells her.

“Are you going to actually take my underwear off?” she asks.  She makes a point of laying back onto the table.  “Or are you going to ruin those too?”

“I like them,” he says.

“You should see how good they make my butt look.”

He rubs circles into her hips.  “Turn over.”

 

 

She sighs, and rolls onto her stomach.

He lets out a low whistle.  “You weren’t kidding.”  He grabs her ass.  Just like that.  She lets out an indignant little huff, like that would fool him.

“Would I lie to you?” she asks.  She folds her arms under her chin.

“Yes,” he says.  He tightens his grip.  “You would.” 

She squirms.  “Wow, great pillow talk,” she says.  “But I’m getting hot and bothered so-”

“You are so fucking pushy,” he tells her.  His fingers loop through the band of her underwear.  

“Seriously,” she says.  “Don’t rip those.”

“You’re not supposed to be the one in charge,” he tells her, but he’s gentle as he pulls her underwear down her legs.

“You can’t handle calling all the shots,” she says.  

 

 

He doesn’t argue.  She hears the zipper of his jeans and sucks in a breath.  She wasn’t lying about the hot and bothered thing.  He does this to her.  Makes her all squirmy and wet and breathless.  He’s awful.

“Just put it in already,” she tells him, in a whine.

He does.  Oh, he does.  

He enters her in one long stroke, hard enough to make her moan.  Loudly.  His hands press against her lower back, like he needs to find his balance.  He stays like that, just like that, inside her and breathing slowly and making her fidget, for several moments too long.

“Ward,” she moans.  “Come on.”

 

 

Which is when her phone buzzes. 

Fuck.  Oh, fuck.  She goes to grab it, but Ward takes it first.  Now he’s sliding in and out of her.  Now that he’s sure he has the upper hand.

“Oh, good,” Ward says, in a tone that makes Skye sure he’s about to fuck her over in two different ways.  “Phil!” Ward says.  It sounds like he’s gloating, with just one word.  His hand snakes into her hair.  He pulls, and she has to bite down on her lower lip.  “Fancy talking to you.”

“Ward!” she yells, and she’s not sure if it’s because he’s angling his hips the way she likes or because he has the fucking nerve to-

He pushes into her, hips at at an angle, and it strokes her so perfectly that she has to press her face into the table to keep from screaming.

“You want to talk to Skye?” Motherfucker.  Cock-sucking son of a bitch.  “I have some bad news, Phil.  She lost a rather hefty bet.”  Asshole.  Bastard.  “No need to yell!  She’s fine.  She’ll call you in twenty-three hours, thirty minutes.  Scout’s honor.”

Skye hears Phil screaming on the other end, and then silence when Ward hits ‘end call’.

 

 

She hates Ward.  She hates him.  But God, he’s good with his dick.  “He’s going to kill you,” she says.  Ward puts the phone back on the table, slides it out of her reach.  He places a kiss on the back of her neck.  She shudders.

“I won,” he tells her.  Almost breathless.  Almost surprised.

“Fuck you,” she says.  “God, fuck you.”

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

She groans in the back of her throat.  She could mean it.  She should.  “Ward,” she says.  “Please.”

He wraps his arms under his stomach.  Rests his forehead against her.  He goes slow.  With long, deliberate strokes that make her scream.  Her hips buck backwards against his forward thrusts.  He swears.  Always swearing. 

“Fuck,” he says, on one particularly hard upstroke.  “Fucking hell.”

“Same,” she moans.  He’s not going to last long.  Not when he knows he has a whole day’s worth of her attention.  She doesn’t want to think about it, because she knows he must have something planned, maybe several somethings, but everything she thinks off just makes her hotter and wetter and seriously, fuck Grant Ward.  Fuck him.

 

 

She comes before he does, and she allows herself to be proud of that, of the fact that she can fuck just as hard as he can, even as he holds her like she’s the only anchor he’s got.  And when she comes, with a scream turning into moans turning into tiny, little mewls, he tenses up inside her and bites her shoulder.  Not hard enough to draw blood.  But close.  He pulls back.  He kisses her skin, where his teethmarks left little dents.

“Fuck,” he announces, into her skin, through her body.  “Holy fuck.”  It hits him in twitches and heavy breaths, and she thinks she might hear her name in there, somewhere.  He keeps her there, pinned, because he can.  She wiggles against him.

“Get off me,” she says.  “You’re all sweaty.” 

He lifts his head, his chest.  He strokes her hair.  “We should get you cleaned up,” he says.  “You spent all day in that crawlspace.”

“And then what?” she asks.  “Do you have something for me to wear, once I’m nice and clean?”

His laugh speaks of a hundred dark and dirty promises.  “Maybe.”


End file.
